


Jumper Cable

by iniquiticity



Category: Veep
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, Biting, Blow Jobs, Body Worship, Exhibitionism, Frottage, I am a Semicolon Fucker, Jonah's Foul Mouth, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Possessive Behavior, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-09
Updated: 2016-07-09
Packaged: 2018-07-22 11:56:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7437617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iniquiticity/pseuds/iniquiticity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’m not that old,” he retorts, even though his back aches from some tension he can’t shake, and a party till 3AM leaves him bone-tired when he’s pretty sure it didn’t used to. </p>
<p>Jonah crawls on top of him, boxes him in with tree-trunk arms and legs, surrounds him with his brick shithouse of a body. “Ok, ancient one. You lie there, and I’ll see if I can jumpstart the engines.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jumper Cable

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rillrill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rillrill/gifts).



> happy birthday to an incredible person who has improved my life in an extraordinary, almost unimaginable number of ways. liz, you are wonderful, gorgeous, thoughtful, imaginative, brilliant, and an overall excellent human being. i am ecstatic to know you. happy birthday.
> 
> pwp when these losers are married and jonah's working on falling upward to the senate. run with it.

Dan’s more exhausted than drunk by the time they get home. It’s pushing 3:30AM, their last drinks having been consumed much, much earlier in the August evening. Dan’s careful not to drink too much at donor events anyway - he needs to maintain control over his slutty streak, especially in the Senate race. He barely holds himself back from stumbling into their condo, opening the smart-locked door without trying. He takes a deep breath as he steps into the little foyer, feeling most of his tension leave his shoulders. 

“Shit,” says Jonah’s voice behind him, and there’s the sound of the closing door, “That shit you pulled with Jane Hatchette was amazing. Where’d you learn that anecdote about her dog? And if you buttered Mike Mulligan up anymore, you could serve that motherfucker at fucking dinner.” 

Jonah’s always wired after events like this. Jonah needs to break every conversation down like some sports postgame show. Dan sighs and feels familiar irritation-fondness slide all the way through his spine; he tunes Jonah out and sticks a finger in his windsor to loosen his tie. He keeps moving, slow but steadfast, to their bedroom. He usually doesn’t realize he needs to sleep until he wakes up twelve hours later and Jonah's frowning at him, but this time the sense is all over, like sludge in his blood. 

He tunes back in.

“And Jesus Christ, man, did you see Anne Terrier? Her and I went to school together. I didn't think she could be uglier than the last time we saw her at one of these meetings, but some people are just really hard workers, you know? She’s always been sweet on me, but we both know I’m way, way above her level. And, like, I mean, we both can look at you, and we both can look at her, and her husband is just - what the fuck is up with that mole?” 

Jonah’s still right behind him, more or less. Jonah’s had a few more drinks than him, but he’s still sober enough to mentally censor himself in decent company. That’s Dan’s top achievement over the past four years, he thinks. He dumps himself inelegantly onto their bed, face-first. The bed is dark and soft and Dan thinks he could fall asleep like this, Jonah’s voice humming dully behind him. 

“So what I’m thinking….” Jonah is saying, and Dan hears some kind of furniture moving, and then fingers are working at the laces of his dress shoes, and one shoe, then the other, is being slid off. “We definitely have some really good fucking traction with all the big families, right? I mean, there’s not going to be a big concern there. But I’m thinking community outreach, right? Like, we should discuss how much I love— I don’t know, who the fuck still needs to vote for me?” 

Hands are reaching around his chest and pulling his jacket off. He hears the dull sound of it hitting the ground. 

“Latinos,” Dan says, muffled by the comforter. 

“Latino outreach. What’s Latino outreach look like? Do we need a fucking taco stand?” 

Dan decides against dignifying this question with an answer even though he’s learned that he’s supposed to. He hears more clothes rustling. Jonah’s hands are reaching around him again, going for the buttons of his shirt. Dan shifts, lets Jonah wiggle the shirt off him. 

“Like, what can I not do?” Jonah asks no one, returning from his brief foray of sounding like a moderately reasonable politician. His hands are at the buttons of Dan’s suit pants, but Dan knows wandering fingers from not, and Jonah pulls his pants off without complaint. “I’m amazing. Maybe they’ll call me King Ryan, when I’m elected to the Senate.” 

Dan turns his head, so can breathe. He studies the wall, sees the beginnings of a matte frame of one of Jonah’s photos in the corner of his eye. “Not very democratic,” he offers the wall, after a pause. 

“I do fucking love democracy,” Jonah replies. Dan rolls his eyes. “Well, Senator will have to do. We’re fucking dominating this shit, man. Between my unbeatable good looks, stellar personality, incredible political acumen, and your ability to fit a whole room of dicks in your mouth, that seat’s as good as mine.” 

“All those dicks I’ve sucked have gotten you up twelve points,” Dan says, to the wall. 

Jonah makes a victory grunt. Dan imagines the fist-pump. “Yeah, well, you don’t need to take up the whole bed to suck all those dicks,” Jonah says, and then broad hands are wrapping around his ankles and yanking him to the side of the bed. 

“Fuck you,” he retorts, as Jonah rearranges him to his liking. He should protest, but he’s exhausted, and - well, it’s taken him a while to accept this - it’s nice when Jonah manhandles him, all causal strength used in the most unsubtle Jonah Ryan way, and on _him._ Jonah’s hands reach under his side and roll him onto his back; their white ceiling comes into his view. The bed dips, and he looks over, finally. With a herculean effort, he rolls onto his side and takes his husband in. 

Jonah’s stripped down to just his boxers and glasses, and he’s all familiar, uneven proportions. He’s muscular legs and big feet; strong, thin hips; powerful, broad chest; long arms, proud jaw. “They shuffle people out of the way before they get this much time to look at the Mona Lisa, you know,” he says. 

Dan meets his gaze and manages a snort. “Da Vinci didn’t fuck Snuffalufagus to get the Mona Lisa,” he says. Jonah offers his own snort of laughter and stretches, impossibly long. His feet dangle off the bed, if he tries. Dan remembers the effort of trying to find a bed that would accommodate Jonah’s gigantism and smirks to himself. The sight of forever-lines of pale skin and muscle, dusted with body hair and what he knows to be his bites, pulls a wave of desire to the front of his mind, momentarily overtaking his exhaustion.

“You better not be too tired, old man,” Jonah says, relaxing back into the bed. Dan yawns against his wishes. He looks up again at Jonah’s eyes, and they’re bright and magnified by those thick black frames Dan’s convinced him to wear. He thinks about the first campaign when he suggested them. 

“I’m not that old,” he retorts, even though his back aches from some tension he can’t shake, and a party till 3AM leaves him bone-tired when he’s pretty sure it didn’t used to. 

“If you go to bed now, maybe you can wake early enough to make the blue plate special.” Jonah slides a hand under Dan’s undershirt and spreads his wide fingers against Dan’s ribs. Jonah’s skin is hot, and his thumb teases against Dan’s chest. 

“Some of us aren’t mindless sex robots,” Dan retorts, but it’s a weak effort and Jonah knows it, and he lets Dan know he knows it by sliding his hand down Dan’s side and groping his ass roughly. Dan’s cock forgets it’s 3AM and twitches traitorously in his boxers. 

“I bet there’s a discount tuna melt waiting for you,” Jonah sing-songs. Dan summons up every bit of strength that he has left and lashes out, and the knuckles of his foot make solid contact with Jonah’s calf. The pain radiates through his foot but he suppresses it - Jonah, being the drama queen that he is, curses loudly. “That hurt, you shitbag,” he says, with an anger that gives Dan some small satisfaction. 

“Didn’t know robots could feel pain,” Dan says, and then he flops back on his back. He reaches for the covers, but a huge hand wraps around his wrist. “I’m feeling fucking tired,” he adds, to the wrist. Jonah’s hand doesn’t move, so he looks back up at the man, who’s wearing a little smirk at the edge of his mouth. 

“Aww,” Jonah says, with zero sympathy. Jonah crawls on top of him, boxes him in with tree-trunk arms and legs, surrounds him with his brick shithouse of a body. “Ok, ancient one. You lie there, and I’ll see if I can jumpstart the engines.” 

He could push Jonah off and tell him to rub one out in the bathroom. He could roll over and tell Jonah to go the fuck to sleep. He could give into the tempting darkness of the exhausted, looming larger than the very beginnings of vague lust in his stomach. But Jonah’s eyes are bold behind his glasses, and his hair is still slicked back, and his lips are wet from where he was obviously licking them. Like all physical parts of Jonah, his face is disproportionate and odd - face too square, mouth too wide, jaw too broad - and Dan’s a sucker for it. Dan’s a sucker for a fucked Figure Drawing 101 project. Dan’s such a sucker he married this fucking steroid muppet. 

“Well,” he says, finally, and the words are an effort, “I did just assure you the two largest voting bases in the state.” 

Jonah’s face lights up. Dan thinks about how much of a sucker he is, and then multiplies it tenfold. 

“Well,” Jonah replies, matching his tone, “It’s not that hard, what with this made-for-government face. Don’t pump your ego too much, dipshit.” 

Jonah shifts his weight to draw one hand across the waistline of his boxer-briefs, and a finger slides under the elastic and traces his hipbone. He exhales, low, when Jonah’s nails scrape across his thigh. Jonah works him out of his boxers and his undershirt, and then there’s nothing defending him from Jonah’s heady stare. Dan’s had enough relationships, and plenty of sex, but no one has ever looked at him the way Jonah looks at him. Jonah’s seen him melt down and blow up and lose it and flip out and Jonah _still_ looks at him that way. 

“Hey,” he says, because it’s intense, and even though he tries to make himself know better, he always waits for Jonah to find some imperfection, some real failing that he has, not their bullshit banter. 

“You are so fucking hot,” Jonah says, instead, and draws his hand down Dan’s arm and up his chest. He rings it around Dan’s throat and Dan’s breath catches. He tries to claw through the exhaustion-fog, now being joined with lust, to bring together a plan to make Jonah choke him, but thinking is hard and he’s really fucking tired. 

If Jonah notices his struggle, he doesn’t mock it. Instead, Jonah lowers himself to his elbows and kisses him, pushing his tongue inside Dan’s mouth. Dan melts into it. Jonah lets him turn his brain off like no one and nothing - no drug, no therapy, no touch - has ever done. Dan forgets the dinner and his exhaustion and their campaign and concentrates wholly on Jonah’s thumb on his nipple, on Jonah’s mouth against his, on the cage of Jonah’s body around his. It’s grounding, to be surrounded like this. Captured, in this weird way. Relieved, like a doctor coming off a shift. 

Jonah’s mouth trails, wet, down Dan’s jaw. Teeth pepper his neck, but Jonah’s at least smart enough not to leave a visible hickey, as much as they both want him to. Jonah’s eyes rove down his chest, which is already colorful with bruises from last night, or the night before, or the night before that. Jonah meets his gaze and smirks, and then he bends his head and sucks hard against Dan’s chest, adding to his collection. It doesn’t hurt, not exactly, but the pressure of it, the claim, the possession - that’s what gets Dan’s blood pumping, gets his stomach twisting. 

Dan tries to sit up, but Jonah starfishes a hand across his chest and pushes him back down to the bed. 

“I wouldn’t want your old ass to be too tired out before I’m done,” Jonah says, his voice husky. 

Dan goes with the hand, stares up at the ceiling, and bites his lip. He nods in agreement, gives himself over. It’s funny to think there’s no one he trusts more than Jonah, in this weird fucking way. Funny to think that he’s been bound and gagged and completely at Jonah’s mercy in ten thousand different ways and how _good_ it always is. Jonah always makes it so good for him. Jonah treats him better than he deserves. Jonah comes up with reasons he deserves to be treated better and acts on them. _Jonah Ryan._

Jonah sucks marks into his chest, into his stomach. Jonah bites him, sharp, activating some secret nerves that only Jonah can find, nerves that fog his brain and send warmth searing through his body. Jonah can harden him up with just his mouth, with just his presence. Jonah can get him begging without trying. Jonah takes his time, learns and re-learns his body, even though Dan’s very confident Jonah already knows him better than anyone, maybe even himself. Jonah kisses and licks and sucks his chest and his stomach and his thighs and his hips, and leaves his cock bobbing hard against his stomach. Jonah touches him with a delicacy that shouldn’t be possible given Jonah’s monstrous size. Jonah is unmoved by his moans and begs, by the sight of his flexing thighs or the heaving of his chest. 

“Fuck, please, _Jonah_ ,” Dan says, and his voice is reedy and desperate, muffled by his hands covering his face. He knows that Jonah doesn’t like it when he squirms too much, so he doesn’t, but every cell in his body wants to explode and melt and evaporate all at once. _It’s better for me,_ he told Jonah once, _if you don't hold me down. Make me be still on my own._ Jonah said _huh, you freak,_ and later that night said _don’t move, fucko,_ and Dan came apart in his hands. 

He knows that when Jonah’s like this - fuck, when they’re like this - he is entirely for Jonah’s consumption, at Jonah’s pace, the way Jonah likes. Every time, the thought of it makes Dan repress a shudder that builds in his spine and fights against Dan’s mental strength. Jonah puts his damn paws on Dan’s legs and spread them open, teasing nails against old bruises, and Dan wants to scream. Jonah’s mouth teases his sensitive inner thighs and Dan downright _whimpers._

With effortless strength, Jonah flips him onto his stomach. Dan’s not sensible enough to complain, nevertheless fight back. Jonah runs his hands over Dan’s thighs again and Dan digs his face into his pillow. 

“How am I supposed to hear your pretty fucking moans like that?” Jonah asks. A thread of pure lust is threaded into his voice, a dark growl. “Take that shit away away,” he says, sharply, and Dan’s hands shake as he pulls the pillow away from his mouth. 

Dan gets the sense a second before Jonah’s wide palm actually smacks him square on the ass, and it’s lightning-sharp and a brilliant, unbearable shock in his stomach. He gasps, forcing himself not to shake. Jonah’s got his hands on Dan’s ass, feeling out the curve of it, making thoughtful noises, as if he doesn’t see Dan’s bare ass at minimum five times a week. Dan feels himself be spread wide, hears Jonah exhale with relief and delight, and feels the weight on the bed shift. Jonah’s tongue is wide and broad and wet against him, unceasing and unforgiving. Jonah’s tongue knows him better than anything. Jonah’s tongue finds secret symphonies in him, undiscovered pleasure and incredible, world-consuming ecstasy. A long time ago, before they had one bed and Jonah made him poached eggs, Dan thought Jonah’s tongue was the first non-addicting thing that could ease the tension in his muscles. 

(Wasn’t he the most wrong about a thing that a person could be.) 

Jonah presses a finger in with his tongue and Dan wails. Jonah undoes him in a way that suggests that if he wanted, he could have Dan coming all over himself in three seconds, but he doesn’t. Jonah undoes him in a way that aggressively indicates Dan is _his,_ Dan’s _body_ is his. 

Dan drowns in it. Dan drowns in being Jonah’s. Dan drowns in Jonah’s hands all over his body, inside him, surrounding him. Dan drowns in Jonah’s overwhelming physicality, in his size, in his strength. Dan isn’t really completely on this plane of existence anymore, mind hazed through with pleasure, all the nerves in his body ringing at once. It’s a different kind of headspace than a true subspace, but it’s extraordinary all the same, with a blessed, magnificent distance from reality. Jonah can get him to let his body go. Jonah can get him to stop thinking, to stop planning, to stop listening every step and every strategy. Jonah says _Let me do the thinking,_ in so many words. It shouldn’t be such a relief, given the usual results of Jonah’s plots, but Dan’s mind says _Ok_ without him meaning to. He’s floating, anchored only by Jonah’s nimble fingers and the pinches that Jonah intersperses, sharp and random, on his thighs. 

Jonah takes his sweet fucking time, so much so that Dan starts to feel his body surge further, twist and ache with heat. Dan tries to groan out a complaint, but Jonah’s mouth is unendingly eager and unerringly accurate, decimating all the good usual sense he usually possesses. _Relentless,_ Dan decides, is the word. Jonah stops for two relaxing, miserable seconds, and then Jonah’s under him with a dish towel from the bedside table and Jonah’s hand is wrapped around his cock, hard between his body and the sheets, and Jonah’s mouth is back on his asshole. It’s even more terrible now, with Jonah’s huge hand, slick, pumping him; he writhes, because he can’t think, can’t stop himself, has lost any sense of discipline. 

“Yeah, I want it,” Jonah says, and Dan’s body knows what those words mean if they don’t make any sense. Dan comes with a groan, gasping and shivering, into Jonah’s hand. The exhaustion hidden by his lust appears all at once and slams him like a bad poll or a freight train; his breaths are gasps, and for a second he thinks he’s going to pass out before Jonah’s assault on his body continues. Jonah doesn’t let him relax or ease down; Jonah goes right back to where that devil mouth was eating him out, only it’s worse now because he’s post-orgasm sensitive and every swipe of that tongue is molten heat.

“What are you doing to me,” Dan gasps out, barely able to form the words. Jonah chuckles against his wet, raw flesh, and a full-body shudder runs through Dan, like Jonah’s hands are the only thing keeping his bones within his body.

“Your premature ejactulation is not my problem,” Jonah says, but each word is a breath so close to sensitive skin that Dan bites his lip and buries his face back in his pillow, no matter what Jonah says. “I wasn’t done, and I’m still not fucking done.” 

“Fuck,” Dan mumbles into his pillow. Jonah gets back to work on disassembling Dan’s body by way of tonguefucking his asshole. He doesn’t stop even when Dan mumbles desperately into his pillow. He doesn’t stop when Dan digs his fingers into the sheets, unable to stop himself himself from writhing under the assault. 

“You taste so fucking good, fuck. Fuck carne asada. This is what I fucking what. If I could get this in every fucking burrito I ever ordered, I fucking would,” Jonah says. Dan hears it distantly through the haze of _too much,_ of pleasure and weakness. He might be shivering. Jonah’s tongue is deep inside him, stretching him open. Jonah’s hands, spreading him wide. His world is narrow and tall and bulky and _Jonah, Jonah, Jonah._

It’s the worst kind of relief when Jonah pulls his mouth away. Dan whines, high in his throat and more desperate than he should ever appear, but he can’t think about that. He can’t think about anything besides this moment right here, the heat of Jonah’s palms. 

“You are unbearably fucking hot. ‘Bout time you had someone knock you down a few fucking pegs. Who else you fuck for your job, Egan?” Jonah asks, his fingers teasing down Dan’s thigh, nails scraping against tender skin, “But I can’t blame you. I mean, we both win that I fucking pummel you and you get to play pretend that you’re some bigshot everyone cares about, right?” 

Dan nods a desperate nod, because that’s all he can manage. There’s a silence, where Jonah just teases him, and it brings his cock, trapped between his body and the roughness of the dirtied towel, to the front of his mind. It’s too sensitive even though he can’t stop his hips from twitching at Jonah’s rough touches, too much and too soon after his orgasm. The weight of the bed shifts around and Jonah complains about nothing Dan can understand, not when he's this deep and this low and this hungry and desperate for more and for less and for - fuck, he doesn't even know. 

Jonah settles back between his legs. Dan buries his face into the pillow again, because he can sense the electricity in the air. Jonah's hands rest on his ass again, but this time they push him together, and there's just a brief second where he knows what's coming but it hasn't happened yet. In that moment he's choking back his voice, swallowing his begs, wishing for it to stop and never stop. 

Jonah's cock, thick, slips between his asscheeks. Jonah groans against him and squeezes his ass, firm enough that Dan bites the pillow. Jonah's slick and insistent as he fucks Dan like this, completely fucking selfish. The bed shifts with every thrust, as Jonah tries to manage his balance. It's unbearable and Dan never wants it to fucking stop. Dan muffles himself so Jonah can't tell him to shut up, because Dan's much too busy listening to Jonah's curses and groans as he fucks the slick cavern of his own making. He wonders what it looks like. It must be the most beautiful fucking thing Jonah's ever seen, by the furious pace of his thrusts, by his ineloquent curses, by the sound of slick skin on skin and the creaking of their mattress. Dan can't even move by how completely he's pinned down. He can't move, can't speak, can't process, can't think, can't act. All Dan can do is push back with little cants of his hips and clench everything tighter for Jonah. Jonah feels it, if his bestial grunts mean anything. Jonah says, _fucking yeah, Dan, you're fucking tight, you're fucking hot, you're fucking mine, mine, mine, mine._

"Wouldn't you like everyone else to see you like this?" Jonah gasps, breathless, and Dan nods. Wouldn't everyone else like to see like this, him controlled and helpless as Jonah uses him, and doesn't even fuck inside him in a way that maybe could make him come. No, he's Jonah's, Jonah doesn't have to give, Jonah doesn't have to reciprocate. 

Jonah makes a guttural noise and Dan feels his come on his back, following his spine. It's hot on his skin, and fuck, he can only imagine what it looks like. He wants it to stay there, wants it to dry into his skin, wants everyone to know that they were like this, that Jonah came all over him. 

Jonah's tongue is on his back, equally hot. Dan whines, because that's what he's reduced to. The image is magnificently clear in his head, all other thoughts dissolved like his brain was dipped in acid: Jonah's mouth following the lines of his seed, cleaning him up. Marking him, where there are bites. Caressing him, in some way, with tender fucking kisses. He can't do anything, can't---

Jonah's hands finds his hips and suddenly he's on his back, staring up at the wall, and Jonah's looming over him, huge and breathless and beautiful. Dan reaches and pulls that mouth down because he needs it. He doesn't care where it's been, doesn't care that Jonah's tongue is slick with him, with come, that he tastes like skin and sweat and his release. Fuck, it's better like this, when they're tangled up in all their own disgustingness. Jonah doesn't care either, it seems, and he gives Dan the thorough kiss that he wants, sloppily trying to stick his tongue down Dan's throat. Dan's fingers dig into Jonah's shoulders like they've done a hundred times before, and Jonah's got the marks to prove it, like stone pathways across his shoulder blades. 

"Yeah, right?" Jonah says, when they finally separate. Jonah looks like a fucking sex angel when Dan's in the right headspace. Everything strange about him is perfect; everything odd about him is endearing; everything disgusting about him is sexy; everything unusual about him is unique and individual. 

"Right," Dan replies, breathless, even though he doesn't know what he's agreeing to. Jonah smirks at him and Dan wants him so intensely it's like a physical weight on his stomach. He lets go only reluctantly when Jonah kisses down his body again. His arms are too short. He needs longer arms, so he can hold Jonah while Jonah worships him.

"Fuck, Danny.... Fuck, fuck fuck," Jonah says, eloquent as always. Jonah's hand, slick with lube, finds Dan's cock. Dan wails and arches into it, because he's a desperate slut for Jonah, and they both know it. "Right?" Jonah says, stroking him gently, enough that Dan desperately wants more even though it's too fucking much. His traitorous cock hardens with Jonah's rough attention, not unlike the rest of him usually does. It aches in the best fucking way. "Yeah... I knew it. You're good for me, right? Look at you, pretty fucking thing. Always knowing exactly what to do, what I want for you... We're on the best fucking terms, right?" 

With a herculean effort, Dan lifts himself on this elbows to reply, only Jonah is looking directly at his cock instead. Jonah draws his finger through the beading wetness at the head, slides his nail through the slit, and Dan arches, his cock twitching in Jonah's hand. 

"Good boy," he says, giving Dan a few affectionate strokes, before he consumes him with his very large, very hot, very wet mouth. 

Dan falls back onto his back after that. He can't resist Jonah's mouth on him, Jonah's tongue against his shaft, the head of his cock at Jonah's throat. Jonah sucks on him like it's his fucking job, like he's on a mission to make Dan scream. Jonah is on the Make Dan Come Multiple Times task force, and fuck anyone who thinks he can't get that job done. Jonah can conquer all kinds of obstacles, like holding Dan down when he almost trembles himself away. Jonah attends to his task with his single-minded devotion. Jonah sucks and sucks and Dan puts his fist in his mouth to stop from screaming, the other clenched white-knuckled into the blankets. Jonah is relentless with his mouth, with a hand at his balls, with his throat, with his tongue, and Dan's biting hard enough on his fingers that he breaks the skin and he's coming, everything's like lightning, sharp and shocky and overwhelming. Jonah holds him down when he shudders, sucks him dry in a way that makes his toes clench and every muscle in his body light up with alarms. 

Dan's eyes are practically rolling back into his head when Jonah pulls away. Dan can't look up at him, can't see anything, mind blank, eyes closed. 

"Hmm," Jonah says above him, fake-thoughtful, "I wonder who the best fucking lay in this entire state is? Oh right, it's me. Exhibit A, presented." 

Dan manages to open an eye to see Jonah gesture to him, like he's a fucking piece of art. He would be angry if he could think. He would be something if he could be anything. He's fucking nothing right now, slick and used and covered in Jonah's mouth, nicely marked. Jonah reaches over him for a hand towel, holds him down as he wipes the lube from his ass. It's too intense and too much and too hard but Jonah tries to be delicate, if such a thing were fucking possible. 

"Gotta clean your dirty ass up, hot stuff," Jonah mumbles to him, and his voice is thick, as he comes down from his orgasm. There's the sound of the dishtowel hitting the floor, and then Jonah flops hard back into the bed. Jonah's huge arms wrap around him, and suddenly he's surrounded by the skin he knows best, that knows him best, that can wring him completely fucking dry. 

"Thanks," he mumbles, into Jonah's chest. He's got a thin string of consciousness left, and there's so much tension on it. It's ok if it snaps, with Jonah's body wrapped around his, encompassing him in the best fucking way. 

"You're fucking welcome, gorgeous," Jonah says, into his hair, "Looks like everything's running well on your end. I guess we can try another test drive in the morning." 

Jonah's hands are around him, one stroking down his back, the other holding him around the base of his spine. One of Jonah's legs is slung over his; he can feel Jonah's foot against the back of his calf. It's fine that he's old, that it's so late it's early and there's so much to do. 

"Good tune-up," Dan murmurs and drops off.


End file.
